


100 Stories

by LelithSugar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Comedy, Consensual Kink, Consensual Thramsay, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hangover, Humiliation, Humor, If you think this has a happy ending... you're right well done you, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Rimming, Smut, This is quite daft, Voyeurism, descriptions of grim things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: A lazy roll in the hay gets interesting when Ramsay and Theon overhear the latest rumours doing the rounds.A silly little flash of the Bloodied Up consensual!AU Thramsay series: in which our young lovers are ever grateful for the overactive (...or maybe not) imagainations of the Dreadfort's populace, because it's exactly what eplains the screaming and the bruises and allows them to be the gleeful pervs they are. There are some surprises, and giving Ramsay ideas is just really, really dangerous.





	100 Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather silly little addition to the AU, which arose from an equally silly conversation with my Gorgeous girl on a very long and boring bus journey.
> 
> Part of the Bloodied Up consensual!Thramsayverse, in which Ramsay and Theon are in a consensual and loving (albeit BDSM themed) relationship and most of the version we see in Game of Thrones is the result of rumours they've encouraged to circulate so they can hide in plain sight, pair of pervs that they are. If you're happy to accept my ridiculous premise for happy consensual kink porn at face value than there it is, but there is more depth and explanation given in the other stories in the series than this one. I'm not saying it's any less ridiculous, but it's been given a hell of a lot of thought.

 

Rain crashes against the roof of the barn and drips through a gap to twang into a metal pail in the corner.

Theon is in his favourite place: on his back, with his legs about Ramsay's waist, worked open with way more oil than had been needed to do the job but Ramsay had been so enjoy the feeling of him slippery and keen around his fingers that the massage had been worth delaying his fuck for a few moments. It's oddly lacking in diversion for them, but neither of them enjoy a struggle so much first thing in the morning and it _had_ been a late night. Strongwine tends to go to Theon's head these days, he's not about to goad Ramsay into making his life difficult when the gentle attentions of his hands and his cock feel so good and his head's still swimming.

Neither of them had been hugely keen on the idea of the day's duties about the place and - considering that prior to the extended and delicious session of eating and drinking and indulging some of their favourite more _specialist_ pleasures sequestered in the young lord's quarters, Ramsay had cried off a formal dinner due to one of his headaches - it seemed feasible that he might be absent from the public eye for a day. They just couldn't very well be found to be recovering from their decadence curled up dozing and fondling under the furs of Ramsay's bedroom, so Ramsay had woken him early and taken him to the hayloft to continue their lazing in peace. Which had lead to taking him in the hayloft, lazy and thorough, and following the slow fingering Theon's body can accommodate the unhurried rolls of Ramsay's hips with ease and enthusiasm. They begin to pick up to something recognisable as a pace; Theon sighs a wordless response to Ramsay's absent murmuring against his neck. In general, Ramsay is not at all displeased with his morning despite feeling a little worse for drink.

It's not enough to drown out a sudden clattering that's too close to be anything but the barn door flinging open and quickly closed, and two armoured men stumbling into the straw, their nervous breathing echoing up through the boards where all action has come to a very hasty stop. For Ramsay to be caught fucking Theon needn't be a major issue, but it'd take some going now to make this look like a traumatising struggle for dominance. For one thing, there are fresh nail marks in Ramsay's back from where Theon's been clinging to him that couldn't look defensive if they tried, and even though he's holding his breath in the moment of nervous anticipation, Theon's not quite managing to wipe the expression of tired bliss off his face. If they're caught now, there'll be blood. There'll have to be.

But the sounds don't draw nearer. There's no pull on the hatch of the hayloft, and if anything the taps of wood and iron on stone sound as though the interlopers have settled just inside the doorway, perhaps on upturned buckets or barrels, just relieved to be out of the rain and more importantly out of sight, unaware that their conversation can be heard with reasonable clarity from above.

“ _What the fuck's the matter with Wyatt Today?!”_

“ _Oh he's got a wasp up his arse because Ramsay was supposed to be leading drills this morning and hasn't turned up.”_

Ah. Well there were bound to be some ramifications to taking a short-notice leave of absence.

“ _Is that any cause to go cutting people's ears off?”_

They've definitely sat down, a good thirty feet across the room below, but their voices are clear enough. Clear enough, apparently, that Ramsay feels confident in relaxing a little and moving again, settling his weight down to lay fully on Theon and putting a finger to his lips before kissing him, lewd and open-mouthed. Starting to thrust his hips again - although minimally, carefully - their bodies flush against each other so they can easily listen to the voices below, in case they draw closer.

They do not.

“ _It's the Dreadfort. Thank your gods it weren't you, and when it is you, thank 'em if it's Wyatt and not Ramsay. He'll do a lot worse for a lot less cause. He was galavanting about wearing bracers made out of … bits... of Galan not a week ago. Got a screw loose, that lad. Have you met him yet?”_

Ramsay surpresses manic laughter and needs no further reassurance that the skiving guards are totally, blissfully unaware of the presence, let alone the identity, of their unintended audience yet and oh, this is going to get interesting. He grins against Theon's lips. Theon's body flexes, the knife-edge of the threat of discovery doing its work on him just as a real knife would: half fear, half desperate, frantic arousal. Ramsay doesn't have quite the bent for exposure that Theon does but it's a thrill nonetheless, and the challenge in his eyes bids Theon keep quiet whilst he listens keenly for the answer.

“ _No. But I met his... I encountered Reek yesterday”._

Theon screws his face up, distracted momentarily, trying to remember who was around yesterday that he didn't recognise, but he draws a blank. Shakes his head at Ramsay's enquiring expression, and then gasps as Ramsay starts moving his hips again. It's slow and tentative, cautious of how much noise each shift of his body will make, but its obvious he has no intention of stopping.Far be it from Ramsay to let anyone spoil his fun.

“ _And I suppose you know all about him?”_

“ _I heard our lord starved him and beat him and cut him up and, and that's why he's all...”_

Theon can't imagine the impression that's going on down there is particularly flattering, but that's for the best. Rather they think of him as a freak than like he is at this moment this: gleaming, hale and naked with Ramsay's mouth worshiping the muscle of his chest and shoulders as he fucks him, apparently barely distracted.

“ _You know who he used to be, of course?”_

“ _I feel like I recognised him, but can't say's I do.”  
_

“ _That's... was... Theon of Greyjoy. Fuckin' crown prince of the Iron Islands, Captain Reaver of Pyke.”_

Ramsay's cock twitches at the reeling off of heraldry. Predictable, but satisfying. Theon manages a momentary expression of disdain because he's due at least another two titles, but he's surprised even he can remember them, with Ramsay's grip tight on his biceps and his cock filling him up like that. “Ugh yes, like that.”

“Shh!”

“ _He's never!”_

“ _Well, he's not now. Now he's... well, you saw, and you ain't seen the worst of it. Shivering round the keep up to all sorts, covered in fuck knows what, bleeding everywhere. Heard the maester had to stitch up a stab wound in his leg a while ago when Ramsay got bored of the holes he was born with...”_

Ramsay winces, rubs ruefully at the raised, deep purple scar on Theon's thigh even before Theon can jibe at him. Which of course he does, whispering, “Oh, is that what you were doing?”

“I am so sorry,” mouths Ramsay, trailing his touches up to stroke down the inside of Theon's thigh and along his cock in attempt to have his slip forgotten again. Theon doesn't mind a bit: the memory of that little escapade _or_ Ramsay's hand on his prick as he rocks into him. Besides, he's too busy eavesdropping.

“ _He... he fucks him?”_

Oh, he should say so.

“ _And the rest. Should think he's lucky if it's as simple as getting buggered. I dare say Ramsay is running short on options since what happened in that brothel in White Harbour.”_

Theon raises an incredulous eyebrow, and keeps his voice low. “What happened in the brothel in White Harbour?”

From downstairs: _“What happened in the brothel in White Harbour?”_

Ramsay's face is all earnest confusion, albeit interspersed with hitches of pleasure as he keeps softly shifting his hips, sliding his cock much too gently into the oily heat of Theon's body, the pleasure of that grip not abating in the tension. He's never been one to be put off by a bit of a challenge . “I – mmm, oh.  I don't know! I've never even been there!”

Theon scoffs at him... after some effort. The fucking's slow for him, but it's still good. “Your reputation must precede you. And you should. Ask – Ah! - Ask for Lisbeth, tell her you want what I used to ask for, and _fuck, oh..._ for fuck's sake let me suck the taste of her off you, she -”

Ramsay shushes him, not out of disagreement but in order to listen to what he's apparently done this time. Tries not to think about the searing heat, the effort blazing through his nerves.

“ _Well, I don't actually know.”_ Disappointing. _“But the Bastard's Boys were run out of town over it and not a whorehouse this side of King's Landing will have any of them now. And old Roose would string Ramsay up if he picked off any more girls from round here, heir or not, and they're burning the corpses too quick now for him to have his fun with. But I think Roose has given up hope on the Greyjoy lad, so Ramsay takes out all his...sickness... on him.”_

Theon chuckles at that, arching softly on a gasp as he's pulled less patiently onto Ramsay's cock, his back scraping on the floorboards. “Must remember to thank him.”

“Shut up.” Ramsay can stomach a hell's worth of teasing, just not when it references Roose when he's naked and trying to concentrate. Thankfully he lets it go when he realises it's a compliment, and he's generally inclined to be more forgiving when he's up to his balls in Theon's arse.

The younger voice sounds unconvinced. _“Gods, I bet he puts up a hell of a struggle. I mean, he's Ironborn! He's not going to take that gladly, is he. Bet he fights him every second.”_

“Tooth and fucking nail,” murmurs Theon, tucking his arms under the arches of his knees to wrap around Ramsay's back, his legs held spread open in the crooks of his elbows. Ramsay cranes his head back to admire his lithe flexibility, the bending that should be awkward made graceful by long limbs and slim, shining muscle. It doesn't look any less shameless for it.

“Whore, ” he whispers fondly, tucking Theon's hair away from his face.

Theon clenches his muscles to give him a little squeeze, and Ramsay winces at the sudden bliss of it. Gives Theon a 'stop that' sort of shake, so Theon treats him to a full roll of his hips, settling Ramsay's cock as deep as it will go and then dragging it almost all the way out of him before plunging it back in. Ramsay swears quietly and smacks him on the arm. It won't do to give their presence away now and miss the theatre, as much as he's enjoying the rest of the entertainment. He's broken out in a sweat.

“ _Oh I'm sure he did, the first few times. Then he learned to just bend over and keep still and let the Bastard get on with it. Not worth losing more toes over.”_

Ramsay nods at Theon matter of factly, with his eyebrows raised; he'd level a finger at him if they weren't all busy digging into his waist. Theon sticks his tongue out and wriggles down further onto Ramsay's cock in challenge, and the bystanders continue.

“ _... Not just him, either. I heard he's been known to let the boys have a go on him if they beat him at dice.”_ A stifled groan of arousal from Theon. _“And the dogs, if they're good.”_

“ _He only keeps bitches..?”_

That's a valid point, and Ramsay's almost as interested in hearing the answer as he is in thrusting himself gently into Theon's warmth, taking it as slow as he can bear, which is becoming more of a struggle with each moment that passes. Gods, Theon is tight but he slips easily in the grease he opened him up with, Ramsay can smell the nervous arousal on his skin as he fights not to giggle or moan and give them away and, truly, this was one of his better ideas. Couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.

_“Oh, maybe he makes him fuck them, then. And watches, probably. I don't know. Ask Edric.”_

“ _Don't be daft, he hasn't got the necessary now, has he? Even I know The Bastard cut it off.”_

“ _Well, so I'd thought too. But that's not what Petra said...”_

A quick and earnest look between them – accusation and denial both ways - makes plain that neither know how or why this charmingly light-moraled kitchen girl has had call to discuss Theon's now doubly notorious cock, but before there's a chance to worry about it there's another sudden loud clattering and Ramsay holds painfully still, the slap of skin and slick of grease at once too loud for the urgent hush. He fights his own ragged breathing for silence whilst Theon manages not to groan in frustration, then a new voice hisses from the side.

“ _You want to watch your fucking mouths if you value your teeth. I could have been anyone! What are you doing in here, anyway?”_

“ _Keeping out of the fucking way! Wyatt's on the warpath. Shut that door before you get us all skinned.”_

A rattle and then scrape of barrel being pulled across stone, a latch being closed. A cork pops from a skin, and then a trickle, so the coast seems to be clear: no reason not to continue, now they've come this far. Theon makes his impatience plain with the lifting of his hips. Damned if one more skiving guard is going to put him off his lay right when it's getting good, especially since the danger, the frustration of the interruptions or perhaps irritation - because it's one thing for the Lord to shirk his duties, but his men? - has stiffened Ramsay into that glaring, hot sort of urgency that he does so well.

“ _Since you're here, settle an argument. What happened to Greyjoy's cock?”_

What's happening to it now is it's being rubbed against his belly between their bodies as Ramsay gets back to grinding them together, slipping in just enough sweat not to pinch, twitching occasionally with spasms of need. It's all too slow for him, too gentle really, but what's lost in momentum is made up for by the thrill of the commentary. Theon's alway's been fond of hearing what the peasantry are saying about him, and moreso these days its usually that he's been made a whore of, beaten and marked and trained to please their mad young lord.

“ _Well, the official line is that it got sent to Pyke with the ransom note, but Lucan said they'd taken one off one of the prisoners to send instead...”_ Ramsay slams to a halt and freezes again, sheathed fully, hips flush against Theon's arse. Lucan may have signed his own death warrant. _“... I hear he cooked it up and fed it to him.”_

Ramsay lets out a breath and carries on. Shakes his head absently at the spluttering he can hear from downstairs.

“ _Fucking hells.”_ The lad's still coughing. Well, good. It's a while since Ramsay's choked anyone. A while since Theon's cock's choked anyone but Ramsay, for that matter, and more's the pity but needs must. 

“ _So what's all this about Petra?”_

Ah yes. Where were they? 

“ _Well, she reckons she lobbed a bucket of water over Reek once, and wringing wet, there was more to him than ought be there by all accounts.”_ It prickles, to think of being caught in a lie, but it's plain nobody knows what they believe. “ _Thought maybe it was wishful thinking. You know what she's like, gagging for it, and Greyjoy was famous for getting a racket out of the whores in his day, and a few others besides -”_

“Both work of art _and_ master craftsman,” grins Theon with an exaggerated wink in response to Ramsay's sardonic eyeroll. Ramsay would like to laugh at him, but somehow he can't muster anything that might be construed as disagreement, and at that moment Theon sucks at his throat, digs nails into Ramsay's backside to push him in deep and Ramsay momentarily loses the ability to see straight.

“ _\- So we went and asked Fallon. Anyway, he's pure blood, trueborn kraken isn't he, the lad? All the way back?”_ Some general murmurs of agreement. _“Well, have you seen what squid do when you cut their feelers off?”_

“ _Tentacles.”_

“ _What?”_

_“They're called fucking tentacles, not feelers. And... I've heard, yes. Seven fucking hells, are you trying to tell me he's grown it back?!”_

Caught unawares amidst the steady build of pleasure which is no longer paying any heed to the frequent distractions, Theon's face is a priceless caricature of bemusement. Of all the stories he's heard about himself in his entire life – and there have been a great variety, some more complimentary than others – that might be the first he wouldn't have thought to start himself.

“ _Getting there, maybe... “_ The man sounds less certain, but only just. “ _There's a lot to grow back, by all accounts._ _Probably why Ramsay lopped it off him soon as look at it. Jealous.”_

Ramsay frowns. He's not as big as Theon... he's met few who are, in fact, and the idea that this is something he's supposed to be upset about is such a gross misestimation of his proclivities that he wants to laugh, except the suggestion that it's a hinderance to his own ability somehow affronts him hugely. But Theon yanks his attention back just as it's wandering to violence, snapping his fingers in front of Ramsay's narrowing eyes and pointing down at himself. Ramsay dutifully reapplies his efforts, nibbling at Theon's neck – more tongue than teeth – and Theon sighs happily. His body is wrung tight and clenching around Ramsay's cock, and it's doing delicious things to him, making tingles burst out across his chest. Almost completely taking his mind off the voices downstairs.

Almost.

“ _How come he's still got no fingers then?”_

“ _I don't... it probably takes a while, and if you had to choose whether to have your knob back or a couple of fingers, which would you pick?!”_

“ _Dunno.”_

Everyone's quiet for a second, awaiting the explanation for this hesitation. The answer seems obvious, after all.

“ _...I'm just thinking, I can't see the bastard taking kindly to having his work undone. Might be better off without, once it's gone, because if he finds himself with a prick to play with again who knows what he'll do to it?”_

“ _Flay it, would be my guess.”_ A reasonable answer from the new recruit, if somewhat lacking in imagination. It still makes Ramsay wince.

“ _Nah. I reckon it's handy for twisting his poor broken brain around. They do that in Essos...”_ They do all kinds of things in Essos, to hear it told in the North, so that requires more explanation. _“You know, alternate the torture with getting them seen to by wenches, so they're half terrified and half happy as a pig in shit and so fucked they don't know which way's up anymore.”_

“ _Oh, yeah.”_ The latecomer's really getting into it now. _“I heard he was doing that before, heard he'd put a hand around and wanked him off whilst he flayed the skin clean from his shoulders.”_

Theon shudders suddenly. Although the only skin Ramsay has ever taken from him was the strips from the letters carved into the tops of his buttocks, the reward and comfort he'd received whilst having the smarting, burning wounds tended had done nothing to untie his association of just-bearable pain with excruciating pleasure. He knows – _he knows_ – that he doesn't want that done to him, but hearing the words said out loud still sends heat down his back. His cock jumps eagerly again, nudging up against Ramsay's taut stomach and Ramsay just shakes his head at him.

“ _Why?!”_

“ _Because the only thing worse than enduring the things The Bastard of Bolton does to people would be being forced to enjoy it.”_

Ramsay lays right down to whisper his scandal in Theon's ear, barely hearing himself, his voice is so strained with effort. “He's been giving this an amount of thought.”

Theon breathes hard through his nose in agreement and cants his hips up, spurring Ramsay on. The man downstairs needs no such encouragement.

“ _Think about it, right? Ramsay's used to training dogs. You smack them if they get something wrong, reward them if they get it right. And everyone knows Theon Greyjoy was obsessed with his prick.”_ It's not entirely absent from his thoughts now, as it happens, enjoying the occasional pull of Ramsay's hand to check the slow fucking isn't hindering his progress and help him along. “ _If you're telling me Ramsay never used that to his advantage, to keep him desperate to obey and then humiliate him by making him spill his seed over being allowed to lick his lord's arsehole then I'm calling you a liar or a fool.”_

Ramsay, for once, is shocked. “He sounds like he's getting off on that as much as you are...”

“Mmm. Can't say I blame him. Could you just....?” Theon lifts his chin to show his neck and Ramsay obligingly wraps a hand around his throat: just a grab, no real pressure, and Theon's eyes flutter shut. That was what he needed to connect the background threat with the heat twisting low in his belly. It doesn't matter how slowly Ramsay fucks him now, he's spiraling towards a pretty staggering peak, he can feel it.

“ _That's just up Bolton's alley. Starve him for a week and then feed him cakes and wine until he's sick. Make him beg for every little thing and then make damned sure he regrets ever asking for it.”_ That doesn't do Theon's pleasure any harm either. _“Batter him into the floor and then make him thank his lord and master for kissing it all better. Then stick his fingers up his arse and milk him dry before he takes him, so he's spent and can't accidentally enjoy himself whilst he's getting fucked. That'd put the bastard right off.”_

A little whimper, and Ramsay squeezes Theon's neck just slightly, teeth against his ear, hips picking up the momentum. “You like that? You like the idea of me doing that to you?”

“I like the idea of them thinking of you doing that to me. I like...” - Ramsay catches him just right, Theon is rapidly losing his composure - “Unh. That.”

That wasn't what he was going to say, so Ramsay pushes him with a shake round his throat. A growl. “You like _what?_ ”

“Ah! I - I like that they have no idea what I'll do for you. How much I want it.” His voice picks up a little but it's likely muted just enough by the hand around his throat and the grit in it from desperation. He clasps the back of Ramsay's head and pulls him down so his nose is buried in this damp hair, almost a challenge. “That you could fuck me morning and night until the fucking spring comes and I'd still be begging to suck you off when you come in to change clothes and find me kneeling in your rooms, waiting for whatever you want to do to me.”

Ramsay groans and Theon continues, chuckling at him under his own chalky breath. “Oh, is _that_ what you were missing?” He can feel Ramsay's body tensing, and he pushes. “That they know you get off on hurting me, they know you fuck me, even, but they don't know that I want it? That I love your cock? That I ask you to slap me around or beat me bloody as you please? That I want your come in whichever hole you fancy taking?”

“Fucking _hells_ , Theon.”

“What, you'd rather I struggle like they think I do _every_ time? That you _had_ to hold me down by the neck, rather than because it makes me hard and you love it when I moan your name and spill my seed all over myself?”

Ramsay strangles a groan and it comes out through his nose. He no longer has any idea how he's holding himself together other then he can't fold Theon back into the floor and pound into him like he wants to without making the boards creak  and he doesn't want to have to stop to deal with the consequences. The restraint is awful, but it's so good.

Whilst they've been wrapped up in filth, there's clearly been some dissent over the details downstairs, and the old hand won't let the green lad keep his illusions a moment longer, and is demanding verification from their friend in a typically subtle and decorous manner. _“No, our boy here doesn't reckon our former kraken gets it up the arse.”_

Theon literally snorts, despite himself. Can't help it. Fortunately the converstaion's picked up enough that presumably nobody notices the noise from the loft.

“ _I just don't think he'd stand for it!”_

“ _Oh, yeah, he does._ ” How matter of fact he sounds about that makes Theon's entire body jerk suddenly, and Ramsay grins at him. The tables are even again. _“My cousin Holt was one of the ones who helped hold him down the first time, screaming and begging and all. Doesn't need holding down now, Ramsay just keeps him in stocks in his chambers for anyone to have a go.”_

That idea is also not one Theon finds at all unplessant in his state of delirious, frustrated bliss, and the flare of rage in Ramsay's eyes only adds to it.

“ _Not anyone! Isn't that what Galan did? And got himself_ accidentally _knifed in the face?”_

It wasn't, exactly, but close enough. Theon closes his eyes and his breath hisses through his teeth as he remembers Ramsay's protective fury. It couples nicely with the nudge of his cock into just the right spot, not quite as much or as often as he needs it. Theon winds his hand into Ramsays hair and pulls him close enough that lips brush his ear. Ramsay expects more taunting but all he says is “ _faster_ ”.

Ramsay pushes himself up onto his hands and rocks his hips quickly, surprising himself with his ability to do so without entirely falling apart at the seams. It helps that he'd been so focused on teasing Theon with his cock, watching him respond so beautifully to the degradation, but surely it's a matter of time now, and suddenly he realises he doesn't care who he has to kill for them to get away with it. To hell with the lot of them.

“ _Oh. I think you'd need to be invited, aye.”  
_

“ _Would you do it?”_

“ _Not a chance. Not with someone else's, on the end of a ten foot pole. Ramsay's just the kind to say you could and then it'd be a trick and he'd have your balls off for it.”_ That's not a bad idea. Ramsay knows exactly how Theon would react to being offered out, but he wouldn't want to share him...

“ _I think I would,”_ says the new boy. And if Theon had the presence of mind he'd be shocked, but the heat floods through his body and Ramsay is not pausing to listen anymore, just carrying on. He knows exactly what the humiliation is doing to Theon: it's all the things he tells him people think of him to get him off, but first hand, and Ramsay seizes the opportunity to fuck him solidly through it, whilst he listens to his fantasies reeled off by strangers. 

“ _I mean, it's hard enough to get a whore to keep still. To take someone like that, knowing he should have an army and be able to put you to the sword for not using his proper title? Let alone bending him over something and fucking him in the arse like a back alley slut who's been dragged up from birth to take a real man's prick without complaint... and he can't do anything but take it? Submit and let you take him like fuck only knows who else has? Yeah, I'm no invert but I reckon I could spend a load on that.”_

Theon is sweating, writhing, desperate under him and Ramsay's own pleasure is a buzz that he has to keep tight control on so as not to get carried away. It's maddening, but somehow forcing himself to make the most of Theon's reactions is worth it. Just.

“ _I reckon he enjoys it.”_

There's an instant of dead silence that Theon very nearly moans in. Ramsay does not stop.

“ _What?!”_

_“That Ironborn prince of yours...surely such a proud man would die fighting and trying to escape rather than submit to what the Bastard's done to him? Maybe Ivor's right. Maybe he's trained him to want it.“_

Theon's eyes roll back in his head in bliss. It's too much. Yes he wants it, wants it right now, and everyone knows he wants it. “Fuck.”

“Shh!”

“... _Hurt him and starved him and rewarded him for pleasuring him until he begs for his master's cock...”_

It's exactly as effective as Ramsay might have guessed he would been if he'd accounted for this. The inane chatter downstairs begins to be buried by the panting against his ear, which makes it too hard to guage how loud it really is. It's harder to care.

"Oh god, oh drowned fucking _fuck_ yes, _yes._..” and if only Theon would scream or something instead of sounding so beautifully wanton they might get away with it, but Ramsay clamps his hand over Theon's mouth and pushes forwars to nip at his ear again.

“You sound as much of a slut as they say you are...” Theon whimpers under his grip. Ramsay growls softly at him. “Are you going to be able to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

Theon shakes his head frantically. Of course he wants to do as he's told, but since that's not an option, he goes for honesty, which leaves Ramsay at a bit of a loss. He could smother Theon's whole face in his hands and cut off the noises he's making through his nose so he can finish, but that poses a risk that this is going to escalate from a pleasantly casual fuck into something requiring a lot more concentration than he is capable of at this point.

So instead he pulls out. He can wait: the urgency in Theon's breathing says Theon will not, so he bends over him and licks flatly, generously up the under side of Theon's desperately straining cock: just a couple of drags of his mouth to get it wet enough that there's no pull on the skin when he wraps a hand around it and jerks smoothly whilst Theon's body curls backwards in a twisted arch. He is done for: it is surely a matter of seconds.

“ _We've all heard him snivelling and crying and begging to prove he can be good. What the hell did you think he was offering?”_

Theon kicks his feet and whimpers with the effort of keeping quiet as he spills over Ramsay's fist.

Ramsay grins at him in triumph as Theon flops wearily back to the floorboards. It was probably just about muffled enough that they needn't stop to eliminate witnesses and limit the damage, which is fortunate as there are more urgent matters at hand.

He is then surprised three times in quick succession. Firstly when Theon pushes him back and scrambles to kneel between his feet instead of simply taking him in hand to bring him off as he expected him to; secondly when he realises the voices downstairs have somehow segued into discussing Roose's peculiar leech-related behaviours whilst he was busy seeing to Theon's climax, and lastly that when he sits down, Theon doesn't suck his cock, but instead trails wet kisses up the inside of his thigh as he lays Ramsay back. He lifts Ramsay's knee up and to the side with one hand whilst the other – finally - grasps Ramsay's still-rigid prick, and the kisses trail down, down over his balls until Theon has his face buried in the cleft of Ramsay's backside and is licking eagerly at the skin there, dribbling spit and glancing his tongue over his hole.

Ramsay drops back into the straw and his eyes roll in his head. He'd been close to coming anyway and the wetness of Theon's tongue against him is a paradise he never lasts long enough to truly explore. One day he'll get him to start with that and no other touches, to see if he can come just from the feel of it... probably not – oh, possibly? - but with Theon's hand twisting around him it's plenty. Somewhere, a world apart, people are still talking about them, but Ramsay hurtles away from reality as all the sensation he fought so hard to keep a lid on catches up with him at once. His power; the fear in their voices; his beautiful, debauched boy who worships him so willingly with his body, with that tongue...

Theon pulls back for a moment to give him a filthy look, something in his eyes like he dares their accidental hecklers to ever have imagined it looking quite like this, and he returns to gleefully nuzzling under Ramsay's ballsack, tonguing sloppily at him and Ramsay comes hard through Theon's loose grip, spattering his own stomach and the back of Theon's hair with seed. The relief of pressure and tension is almost as great a bliss as the orgasm itself and for a solid few moments he can't bring himself to move even enough to offer a grateful pat on the head. His ribs heave with his breath and he's apparently forgotten his concern for being heard, sighing as he relaxes into in his tingling haze.

He can't remember if he ever made it a rule that Theon was to lick up any spilled seed or whether it's just something he's taken to as one of his duties, but Ramsay's grateful for the warmth of his mouth cleaning their bodies, for both the convenience and the sensation of hot wetness around his sticky fingers, spent as he is. He's surprised that was never stipulated amongst the gossip, but perhaps he missed it. He did have rather more pressing matters on his mind.

When drifts back to the here and now, Ramsay finds Theon has finished serving him and curled against his side to recover, panting just as he is, shaking a little. Ramsay kisses his sticky hair, murmurs encouraging comfort into it whilst they lay heaving and sharing the dwindling body warmth. It's still raining, but they're sweat soaked enough to be gratefully aware of the chill of the loft.

Still, it's all very suddenly very real: a voice from downstairs makes a comment about someone – there's no certainty they're still talking about Ramsay - using blood to fuck Theon with, and that's exactly the kind of style-over-substance suggestion you'd expect from someone who's never attempted to have an arsefuck anyone was actually enjoying, or has never had any noteable quantity of blood dry on them, or both. It makes Ramsay cringe even though the image strikes something in him that makes him sigh and run his fingers through the hair behind Theon's ear. “That's horrid...” but evidently, his eyes have glazed.

“You're thinking about it, aren't you. You monster.”

“It's just a pretty picture. I'm not suggesting it."

Theon, however, is incorrigible, and that's why Ramsay loves him.

“I'd let you, as long as you swapped for oil before it started drying. If you lasted that long.” Ramsay is not able to protest the slight – it's well founded – but Theon has turned to wistful excitement. “You haven't cut me properly in ages.”

“Later, sweetness, later.”

Theon grins sleepily, eyes closed, and nods.

“Although... it may not be a bad idea, if we don't want to have to stay up here all day. Gods only know when they're going to get on with some fucking work. Here.” Ramsay draws his boot knife out and quickly rolls it across the back of Theon's forearm, stroking his hand and holding his gaze as the blood swells and runs. He drags his fingers through it and up over the backs of his hands; closes his eyes and flicks some into his own face. Theon picks some up too and Ramsay expects him to help in decorating him but instead he pushes his fingers into Ramsay's mouth, and Ramsay suprises them both by groaning at that. They share a couple of tired, lingering kisses but time is dragging on and when Ramsay hears Damon's voice, he knows the game is up.

“ _Oh. Why are you – Never mind. Is Lord Ramsay around?_ ”

There's a tense silence. Anxious hesitation, in which Ramsay smiles. He has an almost supernatural sense for the fear of others and an inkling that events are unfolding in a very favourable way for both his sense of humour and his appetite for terror.

“ _Not seen him today, Damon. Why would he-”_

“ _Are you sure? Was that trap shut when you got in here, or did you close it?”_ There's a clamour of panic. Damon's voice and foodsteps get louder and then there's a bang on the hatch. Lots of banging. The voice directly below.

_“Ramsay?!”_ More banging. _“Ram, put him down, for fuck's sake. Roose is going to fucking hang you if you're not out to oversee the midday drills. Fucking hells. RAMSAY!”_

Midday? He really had better move.

“Alright, I heard you. Let me mop up.”

He doesn't need to see the looks on their eavesdroppers' faces to know that their lives are flashing before their eyes: he can almost smell the fear from where he is, and Theon wears an intrigued expression of glee because he knows they have every reason to be terrified and is waiting to see how this is going to unfold. His eyes are fixed as Ramsay huffs, and grudgingly uncurls himself.

Ramsay drops smoothly through the hatch without using the ladder, wringing the blood off his hands on his cloak. He doesn't pause to look up; his voice is all cheer, deliberately cordial. “You want to try wasting your time behind the armoury. Old Toland runs a wicked game of dice.” A pointed look. “Although I can't vouch for the prize pot, probably just coin and favours.” He makes an elaborate, slow show of checking his clothing and a few of his knives are in place before nodding courteously at his company and heading for the door.

It's Damon, of all people, who pipes up. “Uh, Ramsay, are you, um?”

Ramsay feigns a pause as though he's genuinely forgotten; as though being reminded is an inconvenience, but at the same time he's grateful for the prompt.

“Ugh. Fetch him for me?”

Damon's having none of the extra work, but he's close enough to rattle the trap.

“Reek, get down here! If you make me come up there for you, you won't be coming down at all today.”

After a moment's frantic scrabbling Theon … Reek... all but falls down the ladder and silence reigns.

There are bruises... they're not fresh, they're from last night, but nobody else is expert enough to see that and they look newly beautiful to Ramsay even though they're no surprise to him. His hair sticks up at angles, knotted almost into fingerholds. He's soaking wet, from hair to chest – the bucket under the drip in the corner? - and the blood is smeared not haphazardly and unspecifically on his skin but along his bottom lip and in two thick, dripping lines from the corners of his mouth. Ramsay is awestruck by his boy's brilliance. He covers it by looking at him as though he'd forgotten he existed in the few minutes since he last got to do something horrible to him. 

“Oh, there you are. Haven't you got some work to do somewhere? Can't someone else make some use of you?” Reek gibbers, cringes, wrings his hands as if he'll squeeze a perfect answer out of them, though he knows he's lost. “Fine then, come along. I'll keep you busy... can't have _everyone_ hanging around in here shirking.”

And Ramsay breezes out, followed obediently by limping, dripping Reek, and the pair don't get more than twelve feet across the courtyard before they can hear the conversation start again. People are not subtle.

_"Fuck, I'm a dead man. Fuck. Fuck, I'm hide, I'll be a pair of boots before the week's out."_ Which is ridiculous because it takes moons for human skin to tan in this weather and really, you'd expect Dreadfort men to know that. 

“Are you... going to do anything about that?"  That Theon looks alittle nervous is to his credit. He could reasonably expect Ramsay to see off anyone who presented any threat to them... it wouln't be the first time.

“And stifle all that glorious horseshit?”"  It's a fair point. There's barely a word been said that doesn't tally perfectly with the story Ramsay has crafted for them, and it's healthy for rumours to spread unevenly, like oil on water. The fact they're both well aware Theon will get off on them later doesn't hurt one little bit. "No, _sweet Reek._ Unless you're asking me to defend your honour, I'm inclined to let them live to tell all the tales they want." He pulls Theon to him roughly by the hair but breathes softly into his neck; "and to make some of them true, and perhaps to give them something new to talk about." 

And of course, by the time Ramsay returns to his own quarters after hours of training - tired, tense and having made it abundantly clear that his frustration at his men's inaccuracy was going to be taken out of someone's flesh - Theon has had time to conjure up all manner of new rumours to start. Ramsay merely raises his eyebrows at the paraphernalia laid out on the table, and locks the door. But opens the window.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do leave feedback if you have any, or let me know if you enjoyed it. And I do accept prompts, if anyone has anything in mind.


End file.
